Death brain
by cattaclysm
Summary: Dylan liked to think he was kinda fucked up. His family was okay, he had no traumatic experiences, but he was still kind of weird. He liked sitting alone in his dark room, writing and drawing and throwing darts at his wall. He liked to think the world was fucked up, too. Not like him, not like them. The world fucked them over. Repeatedly.


When Dylan first came to South Park he never expected much and even then his expectations were squished, stomped on like a cigarette butt in the filthy snow under his boot. The trip there was interesting enough, his parents droned on about relatives and how big of a change moving is as he looked out the window, some punk rock-esque band blasting through his headphones, he watched the scenery change slowly, noting the abundance of cows in every field they crossed and silently wondering why the fuck anyone would even keep a cow. It was probably something glaringly obvious but he didn't care enough to think about it.

Dylan was the type of boy to act on impulse, he was quick to scoff, scowl or deliver a snarky comeback, and he was also quick to light a cigarette, should the need approach. He didn't seem to have a filter for rudeness or negative feedback, he was, in fact, full of it. Every person in his life and every action possible, he's probably at least once described as '_so lame_' or '_pathetic_' or '_a waste of time_'. He, however, held himself to the same standard. He was a lost young boy who chose music over sleep, staying up until 4AM with his headphones on, possibly writing or drawing, or something else that was oh so painfully fitting. He was short in stature, around 5'1", he had dull blue eyes, however that was even possible, and his face held many freckles. His hair was messy and seemed weak from all the hair dye escapades that lined the past few years of his life. He settled for a black and then a few bolts of red from the roots downward. He had an undying love affair with dress shirts and his grandfather's bolo tie. He also donned a pair of gaudy purple shoes, a good way to rebel to his parents' '_You look ridiculous! The other kids are gonna think you're 'funny', please put on some sandals or something!_'s. God, they drove him up the wall sometimes. They moved into their new house, no big deal, he was quick to assault his walls with a million posters.

On his first day of school, he met Henrietta and Evan, he couldn't tell if they were twins or a couple. They were neither, in turned out.

Henrietta was overweight, wide hips and a plump tummy, snub-nosed, she wore a long black dress with ripped ends that she rocked in the hottest summer days as well as in the winter, when the temperature rivaled the arctic circle. Her fingers were stubby and she wore black nail polish on her shortish pointed nails. For a few days, Dylan had no idea what was on this girl's feet as the dress was so long, but then as they were lounging in an empty classroom, smoking, he noticed the hint of pale grey ballet flats. The more he saw of her, the more her outfit suited her. Her hair was teased and naturally black, she had dark brown eyes and she carried a cigarette holder he swears she stole out of a 1920's speakeasy.

Evan was tall and lanky, he stood at about 5'9" and he played the piano. He had black hobbit hair and greenish brownish eyes. He shared Dylan's love for dress shirts and wore one under a black coat that reached down to his calves. He had a constantly uninterested look on his face and his voice was a bit hoarse. He donned a cane that previously belonged to god knows who, and Dylan hoped that person was deceased so they couldn't see the catastrophic way Evan used their cane. If he had cared, anyway.

He didn't.

They came across a younger kid being bullied, his name was George, though he was dubbed Georgie by his classmates, parents, and then later, the dark trio of hair products and gloom. The three practically carried a cloud of rain over their heads. Especially on that day, it was raining down hard. Henrietta held a black umbrella, reminiscent of the parasols in old movies or cartoons, in one hand and a cigarette in the other, sans the holder which she must have forgotten at home. She wore no lipstick, differing from her usual purple lips, and she gnawed at her bottom lip, sitting in the bleachers, watching some younger kids practise. Neither her, nor Dylan or Evan cared about the children. They just wanted to smoke. They watched in muted, covered up astonishment as the kids played, regardless of the mud. Dylan's shirt clung to his body uncomfortably, and Evan contemplating taking off his coat because it was weighing his skinny frame down. He opted against it.

They went on about nothing in particular until the curly haired boy noticed a black streak fly across the field and faceplant the goal. He cringed and this alerted Henrietta and the other boy, who promptly turned around and looked at the boy possibly a couple of years younger yell out curses and hold his hand to his bleeding nose. The coach sent the boy to the bleachers and he sat as far away from the goth kids as possible. From there, however, they could see him better.

He was short and slightly chubby, he had an impossibly swooshy side-bang and held a look of amusement as he dabbed at the blood from his nose with a tissue. The ache must have become dull by then, but still the kid smiled boredly at the blood before mumbling something about the other kids and catching the other goths' gazes.

"Wh..." he began, "what is it?"

"Nothing, kid," Henrietta answered. She lied. He knew.

And thus their little gloomy quartet was formed, the shorter of the goth kids attending their daily mope-club less often than the others. He was easily the most outgoing one, or at least he was forced into it, as his parents made him go to a million after school clubs and activities and whatnot. Georgie wore black clothes he found at thrift stores and he wore a black lipstick that painfully contrasted his sickly pale skin. His eyes were a dark brown, and he was small, even for his age.

It was a sunny day, in mid-April, however, that this would prove to affect something. Henrietta had a dentist appointment that day.

"Mom's being a fucking bitch and not letting me go to school at all," she eloquently put it. This left Dylan alone with the other boy, who he could only describe as confusing. Dylan could _read_ people, Dylan could tell what anyone was thinking because he observed. But Evan was a Rubik's cube and Dylan was a 5 year old, and there was no fathomable chance of him solving it, so he watched, fiddled and whined in frustration. Dylan hated Rubik's cubes.

The hobbit-haired boy sat back, blowing a puff of cigarette smoke out, and the other watched with curious eyes. The smoke formed shapes of all kinds in the air, a slightly deformed dinosaur, a cat with 2 legs, a misshapen heart, before fading away into the warm sky. He took a drag of his own cigarette and blew the smoke out, his took no shape. He eyed the other goth.

Evan's face showed no emotion as he stared blankly at the sky. His eyes were deep, they looked a bit hollow, and the dark circles under them hinted he had trouble sleeping as well. It was an art, the boy, he was perfectly sculpted to fit no norm created, but he fit into it _perfectly._ His long fingers traced the wood of his cane and he sighed. No words were exchanged.

Dylan wanted to speak to the boy, they were friends, but... Dylan acted on impulse and Evan seemed like he didn't act at all.

Dylan wanted to talk to him, he needed to, so he looked for an excuse. He couldn't find one. They sat in silence.

"Hey," luckily Evan snapped him out of his thoughts, "do you have some matches or something?"

"Don't you have a lighter?" Dylan asked.

"'S dead. Have you got any, then?" he seemed to grow a bit impatient.

"Uh, yeah," Dylan didn't scowl, roll his eyes, or mumble a comment, instead he dug into his school bag and pulled out a box of matches. He could easily sneak those out and his parents, trying to kick his smoking habit, hid all the lighters, "here you go," he gave him a match, maneuvering the cigarette in his hand so it doesn't burn him as he pulled the box open. He failed.

"Fuck!" he yelled as his cigarette was put out on the skin of the middle finger on his other hand, "Fucking piece of shit!" he threw the cigarette butt on the ground and sucked on the burn. It hurt like nothing he'd ever felt before, burns were like that. The tall goth only watched in amazement.

"Does it hurt?"

"Fuck, yes, it hurts!" the younger boy said through gritted teeth.

"Oh."

They didn't speak anymore that day. Evan left early to go visit his grandmother, Dylan stayed and waited for Henrietta, they took the same route home and her mother would drop her off at school after the dentist, which was during the last class of the day, so she could go back to work. A car pulled up, obnoxiously blue, and then Henrietta walked out, devoid of color, walked over, mumbled something about her mother and they took off.

"What's that on your finger?" she asked, quietly, boredly.

"A burn," he deadpanned.

"Where'd you get it?" she messed with her hair as they walked.

"My cigarette."

"Oh," silence again.

Their conversations ended like this a bit too often and Dylan left Henrietta at her house and trudged over to his own, burst through the door, took his shoes off and went up the staircase, to his room. His mother yelled something to him, he called her an idiot, shut the door, and took a nap.

When he woke up he took in the fact that it was 5PM and he hadn't eaten. He got up and grabbed some food from the kitchen. He eyed the dish and poked at it before cautiously scooping some food up with his spoon and putting it in his mouth. He chewed experimentally and deemed the taste acceptable. Dylan liked food. Dylan was skinny. This was odd.

Dylan was odd.

He praised his syllogism and kept eating. His hands ran through his messy hair and he yawned, stretched and went back to his room to do his homework. Not planning to even go to class tomorrow, he simply did it so his mother wouldn't nag and nag like she usually did.

"You need to do your homework," she would say, "you need better grades," and Dylan would ignore her but this time he felt appeasing the wicked witch that was his mother.

He worked on the math problems, went over them quickly, he was good at math. Math was simple, math had a definite solution. With sociological sciences like... well, sociology, he got frustrated, it was all too subjective, he got angry, threatened, he didn't bother anymore.

That night he had trouble falling asleep. He was tired, he was in his bed, but... sleep wouldn't come. No matter what he did. He closed the window, he pulled his covers off, he tried going to the bathroom, having some water, nothing.

_3AM_, the time on his phone read. The screen glared a painful brightness and he shielded his eyes from it, tearing up a bit. It stung. He called Evan. It was inappropriate, it was 3AM, it was ridiculous. He didn't care. He waited almost a full minute.

"Dylan?" Evan's tired voice came from the other end, "What the hell?"

"Sorry," he whispered, "sorry, forget it," and he almost hung up but Evan made a sound of protest.

"No, no," he stopped him, "what is it?"

"I couldn't sleep," he admitted, and shifted to lay on his side, "so I guess I thought I'd call you."

"Oh," more silence. Not painful, not bitter, a soft silence. Dylan's breathing was erratic earlier, it hushed down. He closed his eyes for a moment.

"Wanna cut class tomorrow?" he offered, his voice soft against the silence, his eyes closed and his hand clutching the phone eagerly.

"Sure," Evan answered, not indifferently enough, "what about Henri and Georgie?"

"Georgie's sick with the flu or something," he whispered. In truth, the boy caught it a few days ago, but his parents forced him to school until his fever became bad, "Don't tell Henri."

"Why not?"

"I wanna tell you something," the words were labored, he was afraid, he took a deep breath and shut his eyes even tighter.

"Alright," the taller goth answered.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Dylan said, despite not wanting to.

"Bye," the other replied, and he hung up, put his phone on the night stand and actually managed to fall asleep.

His dreams were haunted by confessions followed by ultimate rejections, abandonment, anxieties, he bolted upright at the sound of those anxieties. No, wait. It was his alarm clock. He groaned sleepily, turned it off, got up and got ready for school.

The sun was mocking his dark clothes. He came to school half asleep that day and Evan guided him behind the building.

"What did you wanna tell me?"

And just like that all those anxieties returned, the fear of rejection, mocking, everything bad in the world he feared and so his cheeks were wet.

Evan wiped them.

Dylan sobbed.

Dylan never sobbed. Dylan was composed when it came to tears, Dylan would yell, kick, scream, but never cry. Dylan was crying.

It came as a shock to the older goth, however, when Dylan bit his finger to keep his sobs down, he bit down heard enough to break the skin and his teeth were stained with blood. The curly boy didn't know what to do so he gave him a hug. They were friends, yes, this was okay. Dylan got his shirt wet and Evan let him cry it out, and then the boy stopped, looked up, and pressed his lips to the other boy.

It seemed like a good idea at the time, it seemed okay, it seemed alright, but... it wasn't.

"I'm sorry," he said, moving away from the other. Their arms were touching. It didn't matter.

"Hey, don't be, 's okay," the other answered, "no hard feelings."

"I'm really sorry, man, that was stupid of me," he apologized again biting his lip. He wanted to say something, anything, that would fix this, that would restore the thread of their friendship he greedily tore because of his stupid mouth.

"Nah, it's okay, it didn't mean anything," he felt something in his chest, an uncomfortable tightening. It didn't mean anything, did it, really? No, it was just... a... kiss, lips touching, no big deal, it wasn't... it wasn't important.

"Yeah, just forget it," he chuckled dryly. He wanted to forget it. He fucking wished for it.

Dylan went to bed without dinner that day. Dylan couldn't sleep again that night. And Dylan didn't call Evan.

He twisted and turned in his bed, the sound of traffic was louder than ever and the lights from the town were brighter than ever. He finally fell asleep at 4.25AM. It was a labored sleep, no dreams, uncomfortable.

The next day, he didn't go to school. It was easy to fake a cough in front of his dad, he moaned into his pillow, bored and plagued by thoughts he wished would evaporate. He sat up, he felt dizzy, wondered about what his friends were doing. Henrietta was probably hiding during gym class, huddled up in the girl's locker room with the window open, smoking and having a lollipop or something while Georgie had French, the only subject he was absolutely horrid at, next to physics. Evan, on the other hand, had maths, so he was probably cutting, smoking behind the school. Maybe he found Henrietta and they went out back together or something. A bitter thought he shook away.

He hadn't eaten anything but he felt sick to his stomach, so he skipped breakfast. His mother pinned it on him being sick. He scoffed and rolled his eyes, digging out his phone. Maybe he could call someone. Well he didn't wanna get Georgie kicked out and, to be frank, he preferred the other boy to the chubby girl, they _were_ best friends, so he shifted through his phonebook until he found Evan, and then he pressed the call button. He waited.

"Hey, why aren't you in school?" the other's hushed voice said.

"Didn't wanna," he answered, "sorry if I worried you or something."

"No, it's okay, don't apologize."

"Did they say anything about that retarded field trip?" he asked, shifting on his bed and poking his pillow with his index finger as he spoke.

"Uh, I think it's tomorrow or something. So Wednesday, and then we've got no school till next Monday."

"That's pretty cool. Why are you whispering?"

"My throat hurts."

"Smoked your lungs into oblivion, huh?"

He chuckled.

"I hope not. Anyways, you wanna come over tomorrow? Henri and Georgie are hitting the pond, there's some gathering or whatever," the tall goth offered and Dylan considered it. Well it does sound better than some shitty group of kids talking about dragons and spells and some shit. Henrietta was really into that shit.

"Uh, sure, when?"

"Well I'm not getting up till fucking noon or something, so maybe at like 3PM?"

"Sure," he said, the conversation was dying, "anything interesting happen in school?"

"Mike Makowski asked where you were," Dylan cringed at the name. It was a well known fact the goths and the faggy vampire kids were mortal enemies.

"Did you punch him?"

"Nah," he answered, "too tired for that shit. Told him to fuck off, though, he mumbled something and left," and Dylan snickered.

"Good. Should've punched him though," he breathed. Evan was pretty lanky but he could pack a punch, "anything else?"

"Ellie Fannington tried to hit on me," another bitterness awoke inside Dylan, but he, once again, shook it off, "told her to fuck off, too. Did you know she gave that blond kid herpes?"

"Who, Nick Wanger?" Nick was an athlete Dylan tried to tutor in math once. They never spoke again. His family moved last month for no reason and no one's heard of him. Dylan likes to think he got hit by a car.

"Yeah. Maybe that's why he moved. Gossip and all that gay stuff aside," he said. He was getting sidetracked, "we've got some homework but fuck that. Want me to come over after school or something?"

"Sure," he mumbled, "I'll see you later," he didn't want to end the conversation, he wanted to say about a billion things but he couldn't and it wasn't awkward between them, but it should've been and he was freaking out. But he kept his cool.

"Bye," and Evan hung up.

Dylan liked to think he was kinda fucked up. His family was okay, he had no traumatic experiences, but he was still kind of weird. He liked sitting alone in his dark room, writing and drawing and throwing darts at his wall. His room was stuffy, the air smelled an unpleasant mix of deodorant, smoke and food. He kept his door shut. Deciding that he didn't wanna suffocate the other, lankier boy, he opened the window for a bit, successfully cleaning out the air, and sat down on the floor. Yes, Dylan was a strange boy lost in the depths of time and space, looking for meaning or maybe an escape but finding none, so instead he smokes and calls people 'idiot'.

He liked to think life is a little bit of an illusion, that it fucks with your mind, fucks you up until you're what everyone needs you to be, he thinks it takes a million pieces to put together a government, a country, and they're all perfect little pieces, he knows this and he refuses.

He liked to think the meaning of life is living the way you want to, doing what you feel like doing, with very little regard to anything else. He liked to think that the meaning of life is so simple but he hasn't found it. He was 15. Maybe in the next 3 years, something would click, maybe high school would do its job into shaping him into an adult. Maybe he didn't want to be shaped. He wanted to stay a little lump of clay that won't fit into the mold cause it's hardened already, and squishing it would just make it crack. Maybe the mold was heart-shaped, to emphasize the metaphor, but maybe Dylan didn't want to be a heart. No, he preferred being a lump. A comfortable lump in a world of hearts. That's what he was.

The aforementioned lump got up to unlock his gates, to save the curly goth the trouble of climbing over them, and then got back inside, plopped down on his bed, fell back and tried to make out shapes from the ceiling. He got nothing.

Except... wait, was that...? Couldn't be, that was years ago. But yet he eyed the carving and it looked but a day old. A small 'x' carved in the ceiling. Next to it, in permanent marker, stood all their names, from his messy cursive, through Henrietta's pleasant handwriting, by Evan's bold, capital letters to Georgie's intangible writing, he smiled. It was an easier time, when he was in 5th grade, when he was 11, when everything made sense, there was no confusion and the biggest fear was being caught drinking cough medicine outside the school. Sweet worries, they were, washed away by the waves of years passing, replaced with new, difficult ones. It was easy enough for others, all they worried about were boyfriends or girlfriends and grades and outings while Dylan's anxieties kept him up at night.

It wasn't easy being a lump of clay that's hardened before all the other ones, they were all getting shaped into neat hearts, he grew up faster than he should have. Maybe that was his own fault. There was a knock at the door, before it slid and creaked open, and then footsteps, accompanied by the clacking of a cane up the stairs. Step, clack. Well, it was more of a thump. Step, thump, step, thump, step, thump. The step thumping continued until his own door creaked open and Evan peeked his head in before the rest of his body followed, shutting the door and leaning his cane against the wall. It fell to the floor.

"Hey," he said. His voice was... complicated for Dylan to describe. It wasn't soft like his, preserved from lack of speaking beyond hushed tones, but it wasn't rough, it carried a smoker's tone yet it was gentle. Pleasant, "how are you?"

"Pretty okay, I guess," he answered. Evan sat down next to him. Dylan kept his eyes on the ceiling. Their legs touched. It didn't matter.

After a moment, he chimed in again, "look what I found," and he pointed at the ceiling, at the scrawlings of 4 kids, untouched by the real world.

He saw the other smile, "wow, man, that's ancient," he chuckled, his voice was breathy, "I can't even read Georgie's," he cocked his head to the side, "I liked it back then," he said suddenly, threw it into the silence like an old book, thrown into a fire after middle school, a celebratory gesture by the student, a symbol of freedom.

Evan was a symbol of freedom on his own level, he spoke of the world in such a tone, he scolded it, he did everything everyone told him not to, yet there he was, in one piece, never being struck by the consequences mentioned by others. It was also probably to spite them, another symbol of freedom. He was a fucking puzzle. He refused to even acknowledge bad things, he kicked them in the face, to show everyone he wasn't affected, to show he could handle it, for them to leave him alone, and they did. He proved himself.

He wasn't a heart either, he was a lump as well, a stronger lump, one that refused to even be a lump, like one of those numbers that cave in on themselves, like Wau. He didn't know too much about math, enough for an A, but he knew Wau was a fucked up number. Evan was kinda fucked up, so it only made sense. Yes, Evan was Wau, in every sense of the word.

"Yeah," he could only reply, "way easier," and Evan hummed in agreement.

Evan's hand found itself toying with the other's dyed hair, tangling in the mess of black and red and brushing it with his fingers, and then slowly, so slowly, stroking it. It didn't mean anything. Yet, somehow, a painful bitterness pooled in Dylan's stomach, that maybe it did mean something, to him at least. He shook it away. It didn't. It couldn't and it didn't. He sighed.

"Wanna watch a movie or something?" Dylan offered, the hand tangled in his hair seeming more comforting but far more foreign, skinny and rough but soothing.

"Sure," the other answered, removing his hand and placing it on his knee and Dylan noticed what he was wearing. A pair of dark jeans, no big deal, he got him those for Christmas. 'Everyone's gotten you some shitty present, so I thought I'd give you something you'd actually use,' he'd say, "have anything in mind?"

"Uh, I dunno," he admitted, "I've got a bunch of horror movies if you want. Or we could watch Dali's impressive attempt at movie making," Evan chuckled at that, "I guess we could watch _Dead Alive_ or something."

"Yeah, sure, that's pretty gory," and so it was.

As the movie was getting to the good part, when the old lady ate her ear, Evan grimaced.

"I'm cool with the ear and all," he commented, "but the earring? Really?"

"Maybe pearls or whatever tastes really good and we're missing out," the other joked. They had watched this movie a million times over but still they were never unamazed with the bloodbaths. Dylan liked to think Evan was kinda fucked up, too. Dylan was right.

Evan had an infatuation with wounds, he realized, when the other goth's hand found itself pulling Dylan's left sleeve up, tracing his fingers along the bruises from god knows where, pressing gently, while Dylan tried to focus on the movie and ignore the sensation on his left arm, spreading up it, across his shoulders, down his chest, stomach, reaching his crotch and then going down his legs, to the tip of his toes. He was mostly successful.

Mostly.

Evan was hard. Dylan noticed. The movie's bloodbaths barely distracted from the fact that Dylan was facing a lower problem of his own, it barely distracted to how such a simple touch to his arm could do that, it barely distracted from the hand sliding closer and closer to his shoulder until it fiddled with the tips of his hair. Evan was touching his neck. It didn't mean anything.

Yet, somehow, his hand found itself on Evan's, which tangled in his hair and tugged gently. The movie wasn't much of a distraction, it was a disguise, they could feign interest, pretend this was subconscious, maybe it was, but Dylan made a conscious decision when he moved the other's hand away and nuzzled into his neck, licking and nipping at the flesh, his eyes darting at the screen occasionally, while the other's hand found itself in his hair again, tugging.

He was lost at this point, a mess of impulses he acted on with no hesitation, actions, reactions and emotions that pooled in his belly, fueled by the other's hands and mouth and soon enough he was on top of Evan, kinda straddling him, whatever that meant, all he knew was his leg was rubbing his groin _just right_ and he bit at the other's neck, a means of hiding his face, his breath ghosting against the hot skin.

Evan moaned and Dylan moaned back and it was like a deep conversation consisting of _ahh_'s and _oh fuck_'s, the air in the room getting more humid, Dylan edging closer and closer to that line he couldn't cross because _it didn't matter._ But what... what if it did? What if he could cross the line because the taller goth was crossing it too, what if... they could cross it together, a true means of rebelling, a true means of freedom, a beckoning to cross the line.

Evan went first, a shallow cry as he thrust up against the other, shudders racking through his body before he sighed. Dylan kept it up, though, not quite there yet, he admired the way Evan's breath hitched and his eyes shut tightly, and soon enough, he joined him in the post-orgasm bliss, the only moment where his sight could go black and it wouldn't matter. The only moment where it didn't matter whether it mattered or not.

Evan was a fucked up lump of freedom, Dylan was a fucked up lump of impulse. They could be fucked up lumps together. It didn't matter, though, did it?

Evan went home and Dylan read Stephen King, they talked on the phone about how they preferred psychological books and Dylan's tongue slipped, he said something, Evan said it back and they went to bed, but it was okay. It didn't matter.

The next day, all the goth kids met up at Henrietta's house, her mother successfully eliminated, off to a vacation somewhere in Wyoming, leaving them alone in the house, save for her younger brother who they locked in his room.

"So my mom, and listen to this," Henrietta's voice was riddled with anger, her brows were furrowed and her snubby nose was scrunched up, "she said that if I don't fix my math grade, they're sending me to Arizona to live with my grandparents," she scoffed, "I don't wanna live in freaking Arizona with all the conformists!"

"Wow, lame," Dylan commented, "Arizona sucks fucking balls," he said, "I could tutor you or something."

"Thanks," she said, and scrawled something in her black notebook. Her stubby fingers encircled the pen and she furiously wrote.

The door creaked open to reveal the figure of Bradley Biggle, stood at 5'2", his hands balled up into chubby little fists.

"Sis, mom said not to let you lock me in my room anymore and to call her if you do," he said angrily and Dylan and Evan snickered while Henrietta frowned.

"Don't you dare, dweeb, if mom and dad find out about this you're good as dead," she spat and the boy cringed.

"Yeah, get out of here, you fucking dork," Dylan said. His voice was soft, a sarcastic tone lacing it and Evan rolled his eyes at the determination of the blond kid.

"Seriously, get out," Evan retaliated... whatever that meant.

The kid shook a bit, but remained firm on his resolution:

"I'll tell mom you smoke and drink cough medicine in here," a gasp emitted from all 4 of them, followed by a sharp silence, filling the entire house, making Bradley reconsider his decision for a second.

"Don't you fucking dare," Henrietta threatened.

"I'll tell all your parents about what you do here, too," he said, gathering courage. He was, in fact, a superhero, he needed to be brave, "especially you two," he pointed at Evan and Dylan, Georgie thankfully left out, as Bradley didn't know his parents.

"That's it," The chubby girl leapt at her brother, knocking him to the ground, duct taping his mouth shut and tying him to a chair in her room.

They stood in front of the captive, a thoughtful look on their faces.

"What do we do with him?" Georgie asked curiously.

"Well we can't kill him," Dylan droned, "her parents will notice. But I cannot have my parents fucking this up."

"Me neither," Evan replied, putting his cane down, "I don't wanna go to fucking bible camp or some shit," he knew that's what it would lead to, more or less, a punishment that would mean absolute hell for all of them.

"Kid," Henrietta warned, "if you tell anyone about this, I will end you," she threatened, glaring at her brother.

"Hardcore," the small goth whispered.

Surprisingly, this worked, a deus ex machina to their problems with the younger boy, after his older sister gave him half her allowance. She locked the door of her room and let the kid wander around the house or whatever. Finally, peace and quiet.

Henrietta's room was a sanctuary, dark and cozy, with posters lining the walls, black drapes over the windows, it was comfortable, it was familiar and safe. She fell back on her bed with a thump and stared at the ceiling, playing with her gloves absentmindedly.

"You guys," she said, "I don't wanna grow up," a solid statement that made their blood run cold with fear because she'd just said what they've all been thinking.

"Me neither," Evan agreed, "growing up is fucking bullshit."

"We don't have to, though," she shot back, "we could always stay like this. I mean, not physically," she corrected herself, "mentally. And socially."

"Socially?" Dylan asked, taking a drag from Evan's cigarette, him not bringing his own pack this time, "what do you mean?"

"We're fucking freaks," she answered, "best we stay that way."

"Yeah, keep making life worse for all the drones and wannabes," Evan agreed and Dylan nodded his head, the dyed bits of his hair seemed to be washing out.

"Do you want me to redo your roots?" Evan asked, "I mean I haven't done them before but I could try," he offered and Dylan, again, nodded.

They sat in silence, Georgie drawing or writing something in his notebook, while Henrietta probably wrote poetry in hers, the curly goth and the other sat exchanging cigarettes before Dylan's phone's message tone rang. He flipped his phone open and checked who it was from.

_Mike fucking Makowski_.

He scoffed. It read:

_Hey, Dylan, why weren't you in school yesterday? Bloodrayne missed you_.

"Who the fuck is 'Bloodrayne'?" he said under his breath and Henrietta sat up while the other two moved to read the text.

"He totally wants in your pants," the girl snickered, "tell him to go fuck himself or something."

_Fuck off, fagula, go eat a dick_, he wrote before pressing send and putting his phone on the ground.

"The fuck did he want?" they really were much more talkative than expected.

"He asked why I wasn't in school."

"Oh my god," Evan rubbed his temples in frustration, "he's such an assmunch, get rid of him," they practically leapt at the phone at the sound of the next text.

_I bet you would enjoy that, per say_, Henrietta made a disgusted face, Evan shielded Georgie's eyes while Dylan cursed and spat.

"Fucking hell he's so fucking retarded, ugh!" his voice was still remarkably quiet, and he angrily typed away on his phone, pressed send, and turned it off, "can you drive me home?" this was directed at the curly goth.

"Yeah, sure."

It was dark by the time everyone got up to leave, the snub-nosed girl waving goodbye and shutting the door behind them. Georgie's mum had picked him up and Dylan and Evan boarded the latter's car.

"Can we smoke in here?"

"It's my dad's car, but I don't really care, whatever," and he lit the other's cigarette before lighting his own, rolling down the windows and pulling out of the driveway. Dylan's house was near the outskirts of town, close to Kevin Stoley's, somewhat, secluded and comfortable. Dylan liked secluded areas, he felt safe, like any outside source of negativity couldn't affect him. He was a bit of a source of negativity, but he was more like a force of anger and spite.

"Do you think that brat's gonna tell on us?" Dylan asked, more like pondered aloud, looking at the passing scenery.

"I hope not," the other answered. When did it get so bad they needed smalltalk?

"Wanna stay the night?"

"Gotta get the car back. You could stay at my place, though."

"Sure," and the conversation died down again, the steady vroom of the motor and the cool breeze felt so pleasant, consistent, Dylan felt safe in this vehicle. It wasn't like his parents' car, a dull red with ridiculous stripes on the inside, the smell of his mum's perfume littering it. Plus his dad kept a gun in the glove compartment for god knows what reason. This vehicle was nice. Evan's dad rarely drove it, so it didn't smell much like him, instead the calming smell of cigarette smoke and hair product was prominent. It was a dull grey color. Calming, cozy. He liked it.

They pulled up at the driveway, got out and the red-streaked goth texted his mother a 'I'm staying over at Evan's' before turning his phone off again.

"Evan, son," his dad's voice was heard from the kitchen, "and oh, you've brought a friend. Do you boys want anything for dinner," he was balding slightly, but then again, weren't all adults? He was clean shaven and he wore jeans and a wife beater. He was very tall.

"No, dad," the other boy called and Dylan just shook his head.

They walked up the stairs into the tall boy's room. He flicked the light switch. Evan's room was... wow. Or, rather, Wau. Yes, Wau.

It was dark, but then again, all of their rooms were dark. Evan's wallpaper was black and grey stripes, his floor was wooden, save for the black, fuzzy floor mat. His nightstand held an alarm clock and a red-shaded lamp. His bed was... amazing. It had a million dark covers scattered all over it, it looked very soft. His desk held a laptop and a notebook.

Then Dylan set eyes on his bookshelf and he swore he got a brain-erection. It was enormous and full of authors from Stephen King to Edgar Alan Poe to John Green. _The Fault in our Stars_, _Looking for Alaska_, he read them cover to cover multiple times. _Pride and Prejudice_, he eyed the cover. _Catcher in the Rye, _he remembered when they read that in fourth grade... _The Perks of Being a Wallflower, _familiar titles mixed with unknown ones, he sighed and plopped down on the bed.

"Want something to drink?" Dylan shook his head, even though his throat felt dry. Instead, he inhaled some more paper-wrapped disease and blew out a puff of smoke, steady and slow, calming.

"I missed hanging out, y'know?" Evan commented.

"What do you mean?"

"Like we used to hang out all the time and then... something happened," he elaborated, "we should hang out more, go out to eat, all that gay stuff."

"Yeah," he flipped his hair out of his eyes, "well half the school is away in fucking France or something, so we could go somewhere tomorrow," he added, "like to some food place or something."

"Hm," the other considered, "not really a fan of the people scene," he said.

"Yeah, me neither. Could just go to some secluded place, eat and leave."

"Yeah, sure. We'll talk tomorrow, okay?"

"For sure," Dylan answered and bit at his lip.

"Wanna raid the library while we're at it? We could call the others."

"Fuck yeah."

"Rad," and the conversation died down, a consistent tapping of Dylan's foot and the occasional drag from their cigarettes. Also crickets.

Evan's parents were divorced, Dylan always thought that was why the boy was so... fucked up. Then again, so was he, but his parents were nothing short of happily married. Maybe it's something too complicated. He always figured it was, didn't bother thinking about it. It was easier that way.

But the way the other boy's hand traced along his arm sent jolts up his spine and it wasn't easy anymore and his mind sprouted thoughts and fears like never before and he shook them away.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, just," he had to throw it out there, he had to know, "does this... mean anything?" his voice was hushed, hesitant.

"If you want it to," the other's fingertips ghosted over the bruised skin of his arm and he found himself so fucking terrified. It was obvious but... what if it was a trick question. What if two lumps couldn't survive in a world of hearts. He would take that risk. Death, if by his friend's side, wasn't much of a punishment.

"I guess I do," he said.

"We're not dating though," the other warned, "that's too conformist. No, we're... being," and Dylan thought about it. They were. Literally, they were and that... made so much sense at that moment.

"Dude, I don't think you can put 'being' as a Facebook status," Dylan, instead, whispered, blowing out another puff of smoke.

"Well they thought you couldn't get high off cough medicine, too."

"True. If we are, does that mean we have to go to gym class. Cause I can't do gym class."

"No, man, gym class sucks fucking balls. We'll just... make out behind the school or something," and another silence overtook. It was calming, though, a bit odd, but calming.

"Hey, dude," he called for Evan's attention, "can you shotgun with cigarettes?"

"Wanna try?"

"Fuck yeah," and he scooted over towards Evan and took a drag from his cigarette before pressing his lips to the other and breathing into him. Evan inhaled deeply and they parted lips as he exhaled, their faces obscured by the smoke, "this room fucking stinks," the red-streaked goth kid commented. They opened the window and a breeze rolled in gently.

"It's like 11PM, dude, wanna go to bed?"

"Sure," and they did. The bed was really comfortable and he felt Evan's hand ghost over his skin, all the places there were scratches or bruises, touching gently.

Dylan liked to think the world was kind of fucked up on its own accord. Not like them, they were different, the world was fucked up cause it fucked them over. It chewed them up and spat them right out, onto the cold pavement and wiped its shoes on them and they had the audacity to stand up and curse at it. Can't take away their middle fingers.

Dylan also liked to think life did have meaning, even for a lump. It meant not being able to befriend hearts but... he could live with that. He didn't need the faggy hearts and their douchey friendship. He was chill hanging with the other lumps. Their lives had meaning, too, it was just... stronger, more difficult, to fight back when they tried to mold them into stupid hearts and to prove themselves. Also to smoke and drink cough syrup behind the school. Totally.

Yes, Dylan liked to think life did have a meaning, he was probably right, because in a world of the same monotonous thing, he and his friends were the oddballs, they stood out in a crowd, and they were the symbols of freedom, like doves. Dylan was a dove. He was a dove and he was a lump and he was free and refused to be anything less. He had yet to feel the span of his wings, though, he had yet to feel the wind in his face. But he was a force of anger, of spite, of a deep hatred for anyone that would cross him.

Yes, being a lump had its perks. Flying was one of them. Calling people 'idiot' was another. The goth kids didn't conform to the rule of choosing only one, either, just to spite it. They succeeded out of anger, they flew out of spite. But spite was the wind beneath their wings and anger was the fuel of their success, so maybe they were doing a good job after all.

Maybe Dylan liked being a lump.

Maybe it didn't matter.

_It did._


End file.
